Are You Making Any Money?

We were sitting at the dinner table when a simple, curious question came up.

I stopped eating.

The question hung in the air. Are you making any money?

I thought: Not yet. Not enough. Maybe never. But I’m building something. I wanted to explain.

Instead, I snapped.

"Why does everything have to be about money? What if I'm not making money—then what? Does that change anything?"

My voice got louder. I kept going.

"Maybe next time I can just send you both my bank statements each month. Would that satisfy you?"

Silence.

Then I realized: I was the only one talking. The room had gone quiet.

I stood up and went back to my room. Closed the door. Plugged in my earphones.

Opened my laptop like I was going to work. But I just sat there. Staring.

I could not focus at all. My favorite song was playing—I didn't even notice until it ended.

Head tilted on my shoulder. Trying to name what I was feeling.

My chest felt heavy. I wanted to go outside, get some air. But I couldn't move. Like something had pinned me to the chair.

I couldn't sit there anymore. I opened my laptop. Not to work—to search for apartments.

Within an hour, I'd messaged five landlords. Scheduled three viewings for the weekend.

For the first time all day, I could breathe.

All this felt frictionless to me. In that moment, I forgot about the fight.

That's when I knew I was doing the right thing.

I don't know if moving out will fix everything. Maybe I'll still be anxious. Maybe the fear will follow me.

But I know I can't build anything—Mudo, a life, anything—when my environment drains me.

I'm taking it one day at a time—one apartment viewing, one decision.

And trying not to think about the next dinner table conversation.